


Dedication

by Persiflager



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 17:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: Basira keeps Daisy safe.





	Dedication

Daisy lies on her front on the old army cot, her head turned to one side and resting on her folded arms. From here she can see a pair of Melanie’s boots, a step-ladder, a cardboard box full of tinned food, and shelves of archived statements stretching off into the gloom. It’s far too warm, even with her top off, and only the occasional breeze from the rotating fan in the corner disrupts the sticky, unmoving air.

“Remember you have to stay still,” says Basira from somewhere near Daisy’s feet.

“I remember.” Stillness is not a problem for Daisy these days. Used to be she couldn’t bear it, not unless she was watching a target; she could hold herself in readiness for hours then, poised, ready to pounce. Now it’s movement that takes the effort. Her muscles are weak but the real problem lies in her mind; she still has to remind herself that it’s possible to be somewhere that isn’t here.

The cot stinks of dust and sweat - normal, human smells that comes from too many people sharing the same small space for too long. Nothing to get her blood pumping, nothing that says ‘prey’.

If they survive the week, Daisy’s going to wash the blanket. It’s important to have goals. 

“Remind me again how this is supposed to work,” says Daisy when Basira’s been silent too long.

“It’s a binding. Like the books. Powers can be bound, and warded against. This should hide you from the Hunt, make it harder for it to see you.”

“Smell,” says Daisy. “Hunt’s not so bothered by sight.” It’s about smell and taste and hunger. The Hunt is visceral, close, embodied; the polar opposite of the distant Watcher. “What’s the catch?”

“Don’t know,” says Basira. “Gertrude’s notes didn’t say. I thought you were alright with this?”

“I am,” says Daisy. “I can’t see you from here.” 

“Oh, OK. Hang on.” Basira puts a piece of paper down on the floor, just within Daisy’s peripheral vision. The cot dips and creaks as she climbs on, straddling Daisy’s thighs. The weight is comforting. Daisy can feel her shift as she leans forward, bracing herself with one hand against Daisy’s unscarred shoulder. 

“Do you need me to keep talking? It’s just that I need to concentrate.”

“No,” says Daisy. “It’s alright now that I can feel you.” Basira’s palm is warm and Daisy can already feel her skin beginning to prickle with sweat where they’re touching. She closes her eyes.

Basira pushes Daisy’s hair up and out of the way, exposing the vulnerable nape of her neck. Daisy shivers on instinct, half-expecting a bite, but instead of teeth she feels the soft brush of a felt-tip pen. The first stroke is tentative, the next firmer. The only sound is the murmur of the fan as Basira slowly works her way across Daisy’s back in curves and lines of a script Daisy cannot read, pausing every so often to lean down and check the piece of paper beside them on the floor. 

It tickles. Arcane rituals should do more than tickle. Daisy should be able to feel it burning like a tattoo, the words sinking into her flesh. There’s always a price to be paid, and if it’s not pain it’ll be something worse.

Then again, ‘something worse’ might well happen anyway. No guarantees these days. Never were any, really.

A loose strand of Basira’s hair brushes against Daisy’s side as she writes. It feels like the words are getting smaller, as if Basira’s struggling to fit it all in. She shuffles back, pulls Daisy’s waistband down a couple of inches and starts on Daisy’s lower back.

An old memory stirs, of a girlfriend she’d had back in school writing ‘Property of Ceri Thomas’ on Daisy’s bum in biro. Ceri had volunteered in the school library in her lunch-breaks - proper boffin,she’d been, all the teachers loved her - which meant that she was trusted with a key to the backroom. They’d sneak in after school, when Daisy was meant to be at hockey practice, and fuck in that musty old room full of books and glue and stacks of old National Geographic magazines. Daisy still can’t smell an ink stamp without thinking of her gym skirt up around her waist and Ceri’s laughing eyes.

“There,” says Basira. “Wait, don’t move yet. Give it a minute to dry.”

Daisy waits, half-asleep, drifting between the past and the present. After a while she feels Basira lightly touch her left shoulder with a fingertip, right at the edge of the scar. The finger moves across Daisy’s back from left to right, then starts again on the next line. Basira’s reading her. Daisy can picture her serious, concentrating expression - she’s spent enough time looking at Basira engrossed in a book.

“Should have known you’d like this,” says Daisy fondly as Basira gets to the end.

“I didn’t do it for fun.” Basira climbs off the cot. “I’ve got to go and talk to Melanie. Will you be alright hanging out with Jon this afternoon?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Daisy, and with half-closed eyes she watches Basira leave.

…

Later Daisy looks at her back in the bathroom mirror, twisting around to see. It’s covered in neat black loops and swirls, tightly packed so that her skin is more ink than not. She wets a finger and rubs at the ink but it doesn’t come off, doesn’t even smudge; it’s like she’s been tattooed. Or stamped.

..

Jon’s been sitting at his desk in silence for nearly an hour, doing god knows what. Probably something creepy. Daisy wonders if he realises these babysitting sessions are as much for him these days are they are for her; she might not be a Hunter any more but she’s still capable of taking him down if necessary.

Daisy’s curled up on the armchair in the corner, making her way through a book of crosswords she found hidden away in the office, half completed. It was probably Gertrude’s. Daisy’s been gradually building up an image of Gertrude from the traces she left behind - the way she thought, the things she liked, the way she moved through the world. They’d have probably got on, at least until one of them tried to kill the other.

Daisy gets an orange out of her bag and starts to peel it, enjoying the sharp, bright scent of citrus. Three down, dedication of an egotist, four letters-

“Have you done something with your hair?”

“What?”

“There’s something different about you,” says Jon. His gaze focuses, sharpens, and then shifts downwards until he’s looking at her chest.

“Why are you staring at my tits?” asks Daisy, genuinely curious. Normally she’d punch a bloke for that but before today she’d have sworn Jon didn’t even know what breasts were.

“I’m not,” says Jon, still staring. Something’s gone wrong with his eyes; it’s like he’s looking right through her, scanning from left to right. “You’re-”

Daisy throws her orange at Jon’s head.

“Ow!” says Jon, rubbing at the sheen of juice on his forehead. His eyes have gone back to normal.

“Don’t.” 

“You could have just said.”

“Oh right, and you’d have listened, would you?” Daisy gestures for Jon to return the orange and he does so, picking it up off the floor and tossing it back over.

“I am trying, you know.”

“Hm.” Daisy pulls off a segment and carefully removes all the white pith before popping it in her mouth. She can feel Jon watching her but in a normal-person way, not supernatural, so she ignores it. “You need a hobby. Book group, maybe.”

Jon laughs, and he sounds surprised at himself as he does so. Daisy can’t remember the last time she heard him laugh. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, given the books we have available.”

“Maybe not. Then again, not like that’s ever stopped anyone around here.” 

“True.” Jon looks like he’s about to say something, but instead he unfolds himself from his chair and stretches. “Cup of tea?”

“Go on then.” Daisy watches him go.

She could ask him. She could ask Jon what exactly the writing on her back has done to her, and he’d be more than happy to find out. But Daisy’s not like Jon or Basira; she doesn’t need to know. She can make that choice.

Daisy goes back to her crossword and her orange. In a few minutes she’ll have a cup of tea, which will be nice, and Basira should be back this evening, and if they’re lucky they’ll have made it through another day.

Ignoring the itching on her back, Daisy writes in ‘tome’ in neat capitals and looks at the next clue.


End file.
